Conspiracy
by Victoria Hughes
Summary: What starts as a simple murder ends in a conspiracy going all the way to the top. Is Jack McCoy and Co. in over their heads? Rated for violence and language.
1. Part I

Conspiracy  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the main characters; they are the property of Wolf Films, the lucky dogs. Please do not sue. I'm practically broke in comparison to you guys, anyway.  
  
Author's Initial Notes: This was written some time ago - back when Abbie Carmichael was the ADA. I never originally intended to put this up anywhere, but here I am . Evan, if you are reading this, I hereby command you, GO! Leave this fic in peace. ^^x It is too crazy for you.  
  
And so, without further ado .  
  
* * *  
  
Ransond Hotel, 10th floor, 2:22 p.m.  
  
"Oh, crap." Rey Curtis, a good-looking Hispanic detective from the 2-7, shook his head at the nearly-decapitated body on the bed. Blood was everywhere. "What happened here?"  
  
A forensics member grabbed his arm and dragged him closer. "A lot of shooting, that's what. This guy took it 4 times: in the head, neck, and twice in the chest. Pretty disgusting. He was most likely sleeping, and the guy that did it probably just stood about here" - the man stood at the end of the bed and, straightening his arm in the direction of the body, made a pistol shape with his hand - "and shot like this. Nice, fast, and bloody, but the guy's been bleeding it out for about 30 minutes now. We picked up some cartridges here." He pointed to the ground where little white marks had been made in the carpet to mark the location of the cartridges. "Definitely a .22, but if you ever get us the gun that shot 'im, I'll bet we're in business. I gotta few things to do. Excuse me." The forensics guy left as fast as he came, pointing out shot points for the photographer to work on.  
  
Curtis lingered at the body for a little longer. The victim had been an obese Caucasian, he saw, with a relatively young, healthy-looking body. 'Relatively young' fit the description in the papers he held, which told him the man had been thirty. Suddenly a hand dropped on his shoulder. "Hey, Rey, what's cookin'?" Detective Leonard Briscoe, who went by Lennie, stepped up behind Curtis from among the swarming forensics team that had saturated the room. He was noticeably the senior officer on the scene, but he and the much younger Rey were good partners. Lennie glanced at the body. "Yuck. I assume this is the deceased."  
  
"Unless we're the dead ones, Lennie." Rey quickly filled in his partner on the forensics man's summary. "He got shot up real good."  
  
"Somebody must really hate him."  
  
"No kidding. By the way, here's the guy's name, home, and everything else you could want on him to start with." Rey handed Lennie the papers he held.  
  
Briscoe lifted one of them in puzzled curiosity. "Germany??"  
  
"Yep. You guess how the name's pronounced."  
  
"Harold Schleissmann." Lennie put the emphasis on the "Shliss" and pronounced the 'I' long. "Only a guess."  
  
"Better than me."  
  
"Yeah, but what's in a name? You get the left side of the hall." Lennie strolled out the door towards the other hotel rooms, pulling out a notepad. Rey sighed and did the same. It was time to take statements from the other hotel occupants.  
  
"You sure you didn't hear anything?" Lennie asked again.  
  
The man he was questioning, Timothy Marks, had been friendly enough to start with, but now he seemed agitated, casting his eyes everywhere except towards Briscoe. He was the fourth person Lennie had asked, and so far all the answers had been the same: Yes, they heard shots, about four of them, they had been scared and called the police, and no, they had not seen anything suspicious. However, this guy was scared. "Yep, I'm sure. Musta been asleep when it happened."  
  
"A guy was shot across the hall, and you slept through it? Not likely."  
  
"Look, I don't remember what I was doing exactly! Maybe I was shopping. I don't know. Now, I have things to do. Please leave." Marks shut the door in Lennie's face.  
  
"Well, nice guy." Lennie moved on to the next room.  
  
Rey knocked on the door down the hall. A woman answered, opening the door a crack and looking Curtis up and down. "Well?"  
  
Curtis held up his police badge. "We're investigating the shooting down the hall, and I was wondering if you heard or saw anything suspicious."  
  
She eyed Rey again. "For you, I might have heard something."  
  
Rey looked at her. "For my wife I'd hear anything."  
  
The woman took a step back, then recovered and opened the door a bit further. "Yeah, I heard the shots. About four or five, I guess, but after the first one I was on the phone dialing 911. Scared the hell out of me. Oh." The woman's eyes lit up as she remembered something. "Which room was the shooting in?"  
  
A35J."  
  
"Yeah? Well, I saw a guy go in there about 15 minutes before the shooting. I thought he was just a new occupant. . . was he the killer?"  
  
"Can't say I know. You get a good look at him?"  
  
"All I really remember was his green eyes. . . they were really intense. And cute."  
  
"Thanks. Here, if you remember anything else, call me." Rey handed her his card.  
  
"Will do." The woman smiled sweetly and shut the door. Curtis stuffed his notebook back in his pocket and made his way down the now-busy hallway to Briscoe.  
  
Lennie was shaking his head as he glanced over his notes. "You get anything of interest?" he asked without looking up.  
  
"Yeah, actually." Rey filled Lennie in on the mysterious man with cute green eyes. "And you?"  
  
"Well, I now know there is a man who is scared out of his wits in 36J." Lennie smirked. "I think he was getting himself in a bit of Atrouble" with the missus a half hour ago, between you and me."  
  
"That's just plain stupid," Rey remarked with a frown.  
  
"Yep, that's you, faithful to the end," Lennie replied sarcastically. His tone clearly indicated he was thinking back to a year ago when Rey had gone to bed once - and only once - with a college girl instead of his wife. Rey hadn't crossed the line since.  
  
"Lay off, Lennie. I swore off all girls but my wife a while ago."  
  
"Okay, okay." Briscoe held up his hands with a no-offense look. "Back to the case. I think we'd better contact the German Embassy about Harold. Oh, and check his business papers. Maybe the deceased had some post-mortem dates."  
  
"I'm on it."  
  
27th Precinct, Lieutenant Van Buren's office, 3:12 p.m.  
  
"So, how's the case going?" Anita asked as Briscoe and Curtis walked in. Van Buren was not one for small talk when it came to business.  
  
The detectives filled her in on the hotel occupants' statements. "We'll know more when the German Embassy gets back to us. Oh, and did I tell you our dear Harold had a date with the governor's aide at four?" asked Curtis.  
  
"Jim Dawson? Why?" Van Buren looked puzzled.  
  
"Beats us. I think we should meet him as substitutes for Harold. How bout you, Rey?" Lennie remarked, looking at his partner.  
  
"Sounds good."  
  
"Go for it," replied Van Buren. "But be sure he knows who you are, though. We just went through a bit of hoo-rah because some detectives asked questions without telling the person they were police officers. I don't need that biting us in the rear again."  
  
"Right. You're driving, Rey. I don't want to think through the traffic."  
  
"Whatever." The two detectives walked out the door.  
  
Office of Jim Dawson, Aide to the Governor, 4:02 p.m.  
  
"Harold Schl. . .Schl. . . Schleissmann?" said the secretary. Seeing a man nod at her from his chair, she continued, "You may go in to see Mr. Dawson now."  
  
"Thanks." The man stood up along with a younger looking guy and made his way into the office.  
  
"Well, Mr. Schleissmann, how nice to meet you," Jim Dawson said as the man entered with his partner. He extended his hand.  
  
The man declined it, and instead held out a badge. "Actually, the name's Lennie Briscoe, and this is Rey Curtis," he replied. "We're detectives from the NYPD, and we're here to talk to you about Mr. Schleissmann."  
  
"Police? What happened?" inquired an apparently startled Dawson.  
  
"He was brutally shot three hours ago," replied Curtis. "And we know he had an appointment with you for right about now. So we were wondering what connection Mr. Schleissmann has with you."  
  
"Shot?!" exclaimed the aide. "Well, our connection was this meeting and nothing more. I never heard of him before a week ago when he called to schedule an appointment."  
  
"You must have a busy schedule to be called week in advance to make an appointment," remarked Lennie. "What made Mr. Schleissmann important enough to squeeze in?"  
  
"He told me he was a reporter," Dawson answered. "You don't turn reporters down or they think you have something to hide."  
  
"A reporter, huh? Why not just tell him to ask at the next press conference so everyone could hear?" asked Lennie. "Then you'd do a better job of convincing me you really do have nothing to hide." Meanwhile Curtis scribbled the new bit of information in his notebook.  
  
"I. . .wanted to see what he had to say right then. He said it would be printed in two weeks whether he spoke with me or not."  
  
"I know that's plenty of time for a press conference. For you politicians they're all the rage." Lennie poked a little too hard.  
  
"Detective, If you're suggesting I had Mr. Schleissmann killed because I was afraid he might start a scandal print, I suggest you think again. There are no scandals in this office. Besides, don't you think that would be a little brash? If I killed everyone who thought they had something on me, the equivalent of half of New York City's population would be dead. And through all of those claims I've come out squeaky clean, haven't I? I'm not that stupid anyhow, Detectives. Now, I do have another appointment in ten minutes. Please go harass someone else with your - your irritable questions." Dawson turned and looked out his floor-to-ceiling windows. Taking the hint, Briscoe and Curtis turned and left, walking to the elevator.  
  
"I think you pushed a bit too hard, Lennie." Rey frowned.  
  
"Hey, you can never push a dirt bag like him too hard - you can just force im back into the slime pool he came from." Lennie grinned at his younger partner. "Come on, Rey, he's a politician. They all come from slime pools." He pressed the button to the ground floor as they moved into the elevator. "Let's catch a burger down the street, then head to the 2-7 and look for the German Embassy report."  
  
27th Precinct, Briscoe's Desk, 4:50 p.m.  
  
"Poor guy, had a wife and kids." Curtis shook his head at the Embassy report. "That's gotta hurt."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," agreed Briscoe. "The guy was a reporter, for what it's worth."  
  
"That's what it says. And he had a friend, Alando Schuster, here in good old New York, New York. How about we go meet him?"  
  
"Let's. But tomorrow. The five o'clock news is calling me," said Lennie. "Catch you later."  
  
Mr. Alando Schuster's home, 10:05 a.m.  
  
Lennie knocked on the door, and a thin, unshaven man opened it. "Yes? May I help you?" he asked pleasantly with a heavy German accent.  
  
"Uh, we're the NYPD," explained Briscoe, holding out his badge. "We have some bad news." Quickly Briscoe told Schuster about his friend's violent death. "We're very sorry."  
  
Schuster opened his mouth to speak, then shut it without saying a word. He gasped, then slowly drew himself into a straighter posture. "Thank you, for coming in person and telling me," he whispered. In a louder voice he continued, "I suppose you want to speak to me about Harold's affairs before they killed him." He moved aside and ushered the detectives in.  
  
"We have to ask: did Harold have any enemies, anyone that would want to kill him?" inquired Curtis.  
  
"No, not here in America. He is - um, was - a very kind person." Alando's voice cracked on the last few words.  
  
"We're sorry about your loss," repeated Briscoe, Abut this is the only way to get to the bottom of the murder." Lennie made an effort to tread lightly. "Did he have any - uh, did he know anyone who hated him in Germany?"  
  
"Perhaps a few, but they would not come here to kill him. They were not that angry with him. Many of them were politicians that have proclaimed false messages or evil ones. Harold made it his business to expose the truth about politicians. He was good at it." Schuster frowned. "He was also a good friend."  
  
The two detectives looked at each other, and Curtis took the initiative this time. "Um, he exposed politicians? Did you know he had a meeting with Jim Dawson, the governor's aide, scheduled for yesterday?"  
  
Schuster brightened slightly. "Yes. Harold had said he was going to expose Dawson for the evil man he was. Harold even waved his notes in my face and said he was going to prove Dawson was a sneak, but how he knew I do not know. I do not know what Harold discovered, either. But he said he was going to expose Dawson." He smiled. "I always knew that man was evil."  
  
Briscoe thanked Schuster for the help. "I would like to ask you to call Harold's family. It might be easier for them to find out from a family friend." He and Curtis left quietly, leaving the man to deal with his grief in peace.  
  
27th Precinct, Briscoe's Desk, 11:00 a.m.  
  
"Did you see anything like a report or notes about Dawson in Harold's stuff?" Briscoe asked around his morning doughnut.  
  
"If there was any, I didn't see them, but they'd make the case against Dawson stronger," replied Curtis. "You think that maybe the killer took them?"  
  
"Maybe. We'll have to check that angle," Lennie agreed. Just then the phone rang, and Rey shot out a hand to pick it up.  
  
"Yes? Oh, no, we're just starting the investigation. These things take time. . . Let us handle it. It hasn't even been 24 hours since the shooting. Give us some credit. Sorry, of course we'll keep you updated. Thank you for the call." Rey hung up. "That was the German Embassy. They say that the family has been notified and they wanted to know if we had a good idea of who the killer might be. Yeah, I wish we could find a killer in" - Curtis checked his watch - Aabout 20 hours. That'd make an awful lot of people happier."  
  
"Yeah. . ." Lennie replied absently. "Hey, let's go bug Dawson again. I'm almost sure he knows more than he says."  
  
"Are you accusing the great Jim Dawson of murder?" gasped Rey. "Remember, don't be too hard on him. You might actually ruffle his feathers."  
  
"Heaven forbid!" The two detectives made their way to the door.  
  
27th Precinct, Interrogation Room, 11:42 a.m.  
  
"What exactly are you getting at?" Dawson was not a happy man, and he was making it abundantly clear. He had been dragged out of his office and to the station for questioning, not technically against his will, but it was as close to that as possible.  
  
"We are getting at' the possibility you had Mr. Schleissmann killed because he was damaging your reputation!" snapped Briscoe.  
  
"I told you before and I'm telling you now, I'm not that stupid!"  
  
"Oh? Then please, explain to me why his damaging papers' against you just disappeared from his hotel room."  
  
"Maybe they flew away. I never heard of these so-called damaging papers."  
  
"And why should I believe you?" Lennie bit off the words.  
  
"Why should you believe some guy from Germany?" Dawson shot back.  
  
"He seems to be a lot more honorable than you are."  
  
"That's it!" Dawson jumped from his chair. "I've had enough. I want my lawyer."  
  
Briscoe and Curtis looked at each other, than silently walked out of the interrogation room door. Lieutenant Van Buren was on the other side. "Well, that's that," sighed Rey. "Wanna hang onto him until his lawyer comes?"  
  
"Forget it. We won't get anywhere with his lawyer on the scene," sighed Van Buren. "Tell him he can go and attack this case from the other end."  
  
"How about I talk with that spooked guy, Marks, in the hotel again?" suggested Lennie. "Maybe he was getting in trouble with more than the missus during the shooting."  
  
"Sounds good. Get to it."  
  
  
  
Ransond Hotel, Room 36J, 12:24 p.m.  
  
"I don't want to talk to you." Marks stood in quiet defiance in his hotel door. "You are a couple of pains in the butt, you know that?"  
  
"All too well," replied Lennie without missing a beat. "Now, let's get the story straight this time, and I want a real answer: What were you doing during the shooting?"  
  
"I don't remember! I have no clue!" Marks nearly shouted.  
  
"Oh, yeah, I'm sure." Lennie's voice was laced with sarcasm. "What is it, something you were doing yesterday that's keeping you from telling? Just having a good time - in bed?"  
  
"Yeah, sure. I'm not that stupid."  
  
"Look, buster, I've heard that one too many times today. Now cut the crap, or perhaps we can continue this at the 2-7."  
  
"I don't have to talk to you!"  
  
Rey shifted on his feet. "Hey, Lennie, maybe we're going at this the wrong way. Maybe we oughta reconsider who murdered the guy." He looked pointedly at Marks.  
  
"Hey, you accusing me of murder?!" The man suddenly looked panicked.  
  
"You don't remember' what you were doing during the shots. Maybe that lapse of memory involves a .22 in your hand." Rey pointed out, too calmly.  
  
"I didn't kill him!"  
  
"Then what's your alibi?!" Lennie barked.  
  
"I - I - I called the guy who killed him." Marks looked at the ground.  
  
"And? Name, maybe?" Rey promoted, startled by the response.  
  
"I don't know who he was."  
  
"You called someone you don't know." It was a flat remark.  
  
"No! I mean, yes. Um, I heard from him before - he had a raspy voice. I could I.D. it if that would help. He called this room and asked who I was, and how long was I staying. I said for two weeks - it was the truth, and I thought he might be just calling from the front desk because of a room mixup. Then he said to call a number when the guy across the hall fell asleep in two days, whether or not it was day or night. Then he said he had lotsa money in it for me." Marks gave the detectives a look of ultimate shame. "I agreed. It sounded easy enough. But I didn't think he would kill him! I never guessed it!"  
  
Rey and Lennie's eyes met, and they were in full agreement. "We'll have to take you down to the station to take your statement officially," Briscoe quietly informed Marks. "We'll talk to the DA about pressing charges."  
  
Marks calmly walked out of his hotel room between the detectives, looking down at the floor the whole time, his whole countenance shouting his shame over his actions to the world.  
  
Tamica Offices, 4:12 p.m.  
  
"Well, this looks like a respectable place," Rey remarked as he stared at the high, beautiful ceiling over their heads in the open lobby. The ceiling had a mosaic on it, and nice, comfortable couches to sit in while waiting. "Hardly the place for a murderer to reside at."  
  
"No kidding, but stranger things have happened, and we've both seen it. You sure this is where the phone records indicated Marks called?"  
  
"Sure. And this is where the phone call to him came from, too."  
  
"I sure hope the guys who own this place are clueless so we can just snag the guy who made the call and get out of here."  
  
"Fat chance, Lennie. He'll be screamin' lawyer before we even drag him out the door."  
  
"Sirs? Mr. Brodebacker is ready to see you," the secretary practically whispered. Curtis and Briscoe rose to their feet and walked calmly into the office where the phone call was made from.  
  
"Come in, come in," exclaimed Brodebacker in a clear, almost overjoyed voice. "It's nice you meet you, detectives." He didn't seem to be at all concerned about the police's visit. Briscoe and Curtis ate it up, then dug in.  
  
"Mr. Brodebacker, we are here about a call made from this office." Curtis informed him.  
  
"Well lots of calls are made from this office. What exactly is it?"  
  
"Three days ago a call was made from here to a room in the Ransond Hotel. The call is involved in the murder of a young man."  
  
"What!" If the man was only acting horrified, he was good. "I made no such call!"  
  
"Oh? The phone records say differently," answered Lennie.  
  
"I'll get a copy and see for myself!"  
  
"Here, have one." Lennie threw it on the desk; the important calls were circled. Brodebacker stared at it.  
  
Mr. Brodebacker was not pleased. He glared at his desk, then the ceiling. Finally he turned back to the detectives. "I don't believe this." He glared at the ceiling again. "Do you think an employee made the call from this office?"  
  
"We can't say we know," answered Curtis. "What do you think?"  
  
"I don't know what to think." Brodebacker looked at the records again, then suddenly pushed it aside and pulled a planner out of his desk. He sat there and scanned through the pages before crying, "Aha!" and placing the planner on the desk so the detectives could read it. "I was out at a client's site when the call was made. See? 1:42 was when the call was made." He gave them the name of the client so Curtis and Briscoe could verify it. "My secretary was out for lunch. Anyone could have gotten in. . . no, that's not right. I lock the door when I leave." Brodebacker frowned. "I'm not sure how the call was made." Then he turned back to the records. "And the return call was made while I was in here! I never got a call."  
  
The detectives glanced at each other. "Okay. . ." remarked Rey tentatively.  
  
"I didn't!"  
  
Rey frowned. "That would mean there is a bypass on your phone, like a stolen cellular frequency. Maybe your phone is cellular. . .no? Then how do they make the pass over the line without detection? I'm not sure how we can trace that." Briscoe gave his partner an I'm-lost-please-explain look. "Later, Lennie. Thanks, and I'd like to know if we can borrow your phone."  
  
"Certainly, if you think it will help." Mr. Brodebacker unhooked the phone from his wall and handed it to Curtis. Pressing a button on his intercom, he said, "Betty, get me a phone from Neil's office." He looked up at the detectives. "Hope you catch the scum who's using my phone."  
  
"No sweat," answered Rey. "Let's head out."  
  
27th Precinct, Lieutenant Van Buren's office, 10:23 a.m.  
  
"How goeth the technology search?" asked Briscoe.  
  
"Cool, that's why we're in here." Rey looked pleased with himself. He addressed both Van Buren and Briscoe. "Found a bugging piece in the phone. It traces calls according to numbers, and from a few select numbers it diverts the call to a different location."  
  
"Huh. Never heard of one of those." Anita looked a bit lost.  
  
"Hey, I think it's a new concept, but you can never be sure. However, got the calls all traced to and from the bug - the number is to a perfume shop on 32nd, owned by John Waters."  
  
"A perfume shop?" Van Buren nearly laughed.  
  
"Whatever the tech man says," Lennie smiled. "Guess we'd better cover it, huh?"  
  
"Go get this bastard," directed Anita.  
  
Perfumes of the World, 11:03 a.m.  
  
"Hey, Rey, try this scent for your wife: Hope," Lennie read off the bottle. "Smells sweet."  
  
Rey sniffed the scent. "I already got her a birthday present, and it smells better than that."  
  
"Sorry. Never claimed to be an expert."  
  
"May I help you?" asked a slim Hispanic woman from behind the counter - apparently the cashier. She crudely chewed something - the detectives hoped it was gum.  
  
"Uh, yeah. The guy who owns this shop is a friend of my buddy here," Lennie explained, motioning to Curtis, who gave him a look of semi-disgust. "Where is he, exactly?"  
  
The young girl nodded toward the back door. "In there. You can go on in."  
  
"Thanks." The two detectives moved into the back through the door, and found a healthy-looking Caucasian man of about 35 years. His red hair shone against his bright green eyes. The man jumped to his feet. "Hello?" he asked, his voice rasping as though he had a cold. "Who sent you back here?"  
  
"Your cashier," answered Briscoe coolly, holding up his badge. Skipping formalities, he jumped right in. "We were wondering, have you ever met a Harold Schleissmann?"  
  
"Huh? Schli-what? Never heard of him, and what on earth is this about?"  
  
"A few questions, is all," Curtis replied. "Mr. Schleissmann was murdered two days ago. Your name?"  
  
"John Waters. . . um, mind explaining a bit more of what this has to do with me?"  
  
"Mr. Waters, we will ask the questions for the time being," said Briscoe. "So, you ever meet a Mr. Brodebacker?"  
  
"No, but I don't understand -"  
  
"Just answer, please," sighed Rey. "Have you ever met Timothy Marks?"  
  
"No! Who is he?"  
  
"Some guy who you happened to call, is all." Lennie was not exactly a happy camper. "You sure you never met him?"  
  
"Um, is this a joke? I never called a Timothy Marks." Waters was incredulous.  
  
"Hey, Lennie, check it out, he has green eyes!" Curtis announced.  
  
"And a raspy voice." Lennie smiled slightly.  
  
"Yes. So?"  
  
"So now we have an eyewitness that puts you at the scene of the murder when the murder occurred, and a certain Timothy Marks who can identify your voice. Oops."  
  
"Let's finish this down at the precinct, shall we?" asked Rey coolly.  
  
"What is going on here?" Waters moved out the door in front of the two detectives.  
  
"We'll explain once we're there," Lennie replied quickly. "Let's move." 


	2. Part II

Part II  
  
27th Precinct, Interrogation Room, 12:31 p.m.  
  
Anita Van Buren watched calmly from one side of the two-way mirror as her detectives grilled Waters. Waters was seemingly confused, but every so often a look of anger would cross through his eyes as he sat there, Curtis passing behind him then, in his face now, then against the wall, Briscoe sitting on the seat next to him, almost reasoning with the guy. Executive "DA Jack McCoy watched the interrogation from over Anita's shoulder. Jack was a tall, lankily built man with features that could use work from the front, but were "Actually quite nice from the side. He watched intently, focusing on the object of the interrogation. It would be his defendant shortly, and he wanted to know everything.  
  
"Come on, John, we know you called Marks," snapped Rey.  
  
"If you didn't, you know, you can always join a voice lineup," Lennie sympathetically explained. "Prove us wrong."  
  
Waters sat in confusion. "I don't know a Timothy Marks. I never called him."  
  
"Prove us wrong then," repeated Lennie.  
  
"No. . . what if this guy makes a mistake and says it's me? Then I'm cooked. Forget it."  
  
"Try this one: Where were you at 1:50 on Tuesday?" Rey asked angrily.  
  
"Working in my shop."  
  
"Got verification?"  
  
"Um, I was alone, as I recall."  
  
"Oops. No goal, John!" Rey got up in his face. "Whadda you think I think when there's no verification? You weren't there, John, you were out shooting Harold Schleissmann, weren't you!?"  
  
"No! I don't even know the guy!" Waters shouted back, but anger hints appeared in his eyes. He was riled.  
  
"You know what else? You got a gun, John, a nice little .22, tucked away. That's the kind of gun Harold was shot with, buddy! Where is that little .22 now? Off in a dumpster, covered with Harold's blood?" There was no reply.  
  
"If you still have the gun and you didn't shoot him, give us the gun. Forensics will get us there. It's all up to you whether we keep up the case or stop here cuz we're wrong." Lennie pointed out calmly. Once again there was no reply, except:  
  
"I want a lawyer, now!"  
  
McCoy frowned. "Not much of a speaker, huh?"  
  
Anita glanced at him. "We think he's our man. We got a voice witness, a sight witness, and a nice little .22' in his possession. Think it's enough for an arrest warrant?"  
  
"Are you sure Marks will pick him?" Jack wanted to check. "And the eyewitness?"  
  
""Bout as close as possible without the "Actual test."  
  
"Test him first. I'm gonna go dance for a judge "Bout a search warrant for Waters' place and perfume shop." Jack turned and began to walk out the door, but Anita stopped him with a question:  
  
"Counselor, where is Ms. Carmichael?"  
  
Jack half turned. "She's got the flu and'll be out a couple of weeks. Gotta run." He walked out the door.  
  
Meanwhile, Anita closed the interview. "Let's check him out with Marks and the girl."  
  
* * *  
  
"All right, Mr. Marks, please choose carefully." Anita stood behind the two- way mirror again, this time along with Curtis, Briscoe, Marks, McCoy, and Mrs. Taskui, Waters' defense lawyer. "Number one."  
  
"You tell me when he falls asleep," came the voice.  
  
"No. Definitely no." Marks frowned.  
  
"Number two."  
  
"You tell me when he falls asleep."  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Number three."  
  
Number three was Waters, who cleared his throat before saying, "You tell me when he falls asleep."  
  
"Uh, no." There were raised eyebrows all around as Marks finished the other voices, saying no to all of them. "The voice was way more raspy," he protested.  
  
McCoy threw up his hands. "Just so you know, the suspect is in there!"  
  
"I'm sure, but I didn't hear the guy. Sorry." Marks shook his head. Briscoe took him to the door.  
  
"Can my client go now?" asked Ms. Taskui.  
  
"Nope. One more to go," replied Anita.  
  
As the woman came into the room, though, a light seemed to come on in Curtis' head, and he motioned for the eyewitness to leave.  
  
"Hey," he remarked excitedly, "Marks said the voice was more raspy."  
  
"Yes, so it isn't my client." Ms. Taskui beamed.  
  
"No, but there's a really simple way to change your voice over the phone: a handkerchief over the mouthpiece! That'd make the voice raspier. Try having Marks hear them through a phone with a handkerchief over it." Rey was pleased with his idea.  
  
"No way! He didn't identify my client before, and that's good enough!"  
  
"It'd be fair, Ms. Taskui," McCoy told her. "They'd all have their voices altered that way."  
  
Taskui crossed her arms, but was forced to agree. Marks was brought back in after the necessary changes had been made. Anita repeated the procedure. "Number one."  
  
"You tell me when he falls asleep." Marks shook his head.  
  
"Number two."  
  
"You tell me when he falls asleep."  
  
"No. . ."  
  
"Number three."  
  
"You tell me when he falls asleep."  
  
Marks leapt to his feet. "That's it! That's the guy! I know it!"  
  
Mrs. Taskui frowned and Waters looked confused, as usual. Jack beamed. "Thank you, Mr. Marks. Call the eyewitness." Marks left the room and the girl walked in. In a matter of seconds she declared, "That's the guy. Number three. I'd recognize those eyes anywhere!" She grinned at Curtis. "Not that your eyes aren't cute too. . ."  
  
"Lay off, girl."  
  
"Thank you, ma'am." Jack effectively ended her time in the room. "Well?" he asked Ms. Taskui.  
  
"I have to talk with my client." Taskui was not pleased.  
  
"Okay." They switched off the intercom as Taskui moved into the room and talked quietly with Waters.  
  
Meanwhile someone knocked on the door behind Anita, the detectives, and Jack, and let himself in. "Here's the search warrant you wanted." The man handed McCoy the papers and left.  
  
"Thanks." He turned to the detectives and Van Buren. "I think we have enough for an arrest, but this will cover it just in case." Jack's eyes twinkled the way they did when he was sure of a win. "Execute this, Detectives, and we're on a roll."  
  
Perfumes of the World, 3:14 p.m.  
  
"Well, he was the clean one, all right." Lennie glanced around the office, which was now a mess. "Too bad we had to ruin it for him."  
  
"I doubt it'll matter if we find that gun." Rey was in a bit of a hurry. "Let's find the damn thing and get it to forensics."  
  
"Think McCoy can get the arrest warrant without the gun?" Briscoe was referring to the "dance for the judge" Jack was doing just then to arrest Waters.  
  
"Probably. Two positive I.D.'s, one right after the other. What a whopper for Ms. Taskui. But let's find it anyway. If we make this case airtight, then this whole thing will hit Mr. Waters on the head really hard."  
  
"All the better."  
  
Unfortunately, the task of finding the gun was proving difficult. It was not in the home, and at this point nothing was in the office. Then suddenly a shout came: "Detectives!" Curtis and Briscoe ran to where the forensics man was indicating: a .22, in the dumpster behind the office.  
  
Curtis ran it up a pencil through the trigger safety. "Man, oh man," he breathed. "This has been burned, bad." The whole outer layer was charcoal due to someone roasting the gun over a flame.  
  
"This'll be fun for forensics to I.D.," declared Briscoe as Rey dropped the gun into an evidence bag. He pointed into the dumpster. "Here, get those bloody clothes too, will you? Maybe they'll help out." The clothes were burned too, but not as badly. "This is one great haul, Rey. How dumb can Waters be?"  
  
"Who knows," Curtis shrugged. "But I love him for it."  
  
EXECUTIVE "DA Jack McCoy's Office, two weeks later, 2:27 p.m.  
  
"Abby Carmichael didn't look so good.  
  
"You sure you're ready to work again?" asked Jack a third time. The pretty, thin, black-haired "Abby nodded again for the third time. "You don't look ready to work," frowned Jack.  
  
"It's the flu. You get over it." "Abby was very matter-of-fact.  
  
"Well, you're not over it yet, "Abby. Go home and get some rest or you'll get yourself sicker. I don't need a sick "DA around: it doesn't help, but instead hurts, how the job is done. It changes how the person "Acts. You haven't said much all morning, and that's not the "Abby Carmichael I know." Jack grinned.  
  
"Yeah, well, give me one more day."  
  
"I'm giving you a whole week, unless you want to check that with Adam. You need the rest."  
  
"I need to get back to work, Jack! This isn't helping at all. Next case." "Abby changed the subject.  
  
Jack shrugged and moved on. "John Waters; indictment for murder one. Oh, yeah, he's the guy that has a .22 gun with the victim's blood on it, the two hearing and eyewitnesses, and the bloody clothes. He's on trial in a week." Jack smiled at that case. "Guess it's pretty airtight, and the lawyer hasn't pulled any funny stuff. Unfortunately, we're missing motive. Without that, it could be a tough case. Should we plead him out, "Abby? "Abby?"  
  
"Abby had nearly nodded off. She jerked up her head. "Uh, yeah, sure, plead him."  
  
"You didn't hear a word I said, "Abby." Jack lowered his voice.  
  
"Abby looked semi-ashamed. "No, not really."  
  
"You are tired." McCoy shook his head. "Go home, get some more rest, and call me in a week."  
  
"Jack, that's way too long."  
  
"It's enough time to recuperate, "Abby. Enjoy yourself if you get well before that."  
  
"Uh, you forget something? Like a new second chair?" "Abby asked coolly.  
  
"No. Let me worry "Bout that. Go home, "Abby." McCoy leaned back as "Abby rubbed her eyes, stood, and left the room. Jack "Actually sighed in relief. She needed the rest. Besides, the Waters case needed motive, and he knew the perfect "DA to help him get either a conviction or who was ultimately behind the murder. . .  
  
* * *  
  
"Ross residence." Jamie was trying to make dinner when the phone rang. It was not good timing on the part of the person on the other end of the line. She was pretty irritable. Ross' daughter was singing in the living room along with a tape, and Jamie was not much of a cook. As a pretty ex-wife and part-time "DA, she was often busy, either at home with her kid or on the job trying cases with one of the more self-sufficient Executive "DAs. But the voice on the other end was one that caused her to jerk.  
  
"Jamie, what on earth is that in the background? Sing-along songs?"  
  
Ross was visibly startled. "Jack McCoy, what on earth are you calling for?"  
  
"Help, Jamie. I got a caseload like you wouldn't believe, and one case that could go pretty bad without motive. My "DA's gone sick, got the flu. You're the best "DA I've had, so please, help me out here."  
  
"You, Jack McCoy, are asking me for help? Where is that I'm-tougher-than- the-whole-world-put-together guy I worked with?" Ross was not in a talkative mood. "Why don't you handle it? I've got only a part-time job now, anyway. No more long hours here, Mister I-live-at-the-office."  
  
Jack grinned on the other end. "I understand, but it would only be for a few weeks. Please, just one more time, for old times sake?"  
  
"You are a sentimental old fool." Jamie stole one of the lines she had forever remembered from their two years as working partners. "I don't know that I can. I do have another Executive "DA to work with, Jack."  
  
"I know. I've got that covered."  
  
"How desperate can you be?"  
  
"You are the best, Jamie. I'm not saying that to butter you up. I'll say it again, even if you turn me down."  
  
"Okay. I'm turning you down," Jamie laughed.  
  
"You're the best "DA I've ever known." McCoy replied with sincerity.  
  
"Thanks, but I'm kidding. You talk to Adam "Bout this?"  
  
"Uh-huh. He said it was fine."  
  
"You have me back, Jack. Only for a few weeks, though." Ross was smiling as she said it.  
  
"All right. A few weeks, then. Can I see you tomorrow morning?"  
  
"I'll be there."  
  
"Thanks. First thing will be to brief you in, then we're down to business." Jack hung up. Ross laughed, then the buzzer to the oven went off. She turned back to the now slightly burnt dinner with a sigh.  
  
* * *  
  
Ross scanned the Waters case. "Looks airtight to me, Jack."  
  
Jack was poring over some other papers in the case. "Same here, but we're missing motive. Waters, as far as we know, had nothing to do with Schleissmann."  
  
"So we look for connections."  
  
"That's what the police have been up to for the past two weeks. Nothing, and they'd have uncovered something by now." Jack frowned.  
  
Suddenly Jamie seemed to become quite interested in one particular paper. "Look at this: Mr. Alando Schuster, a friend of Schleissmann's, said that the victim had some papers on Jim Dawson, the governor's aide. They were supposed to be damaging. The police looked for them but they were never found."  
  
Jack came around his desk and looked over Ross' shoulder. "Huh. Wonder where they went."  
  
"Maybe Waters took them when he killed Harold," pointed out Jamie.  
  
"But why would he do that?"  
  
"Because he's been told to, maybe?"  
  
Jack shot back around his desk to his papers and shuffled through the hopeless mess. "Here!" he exclaimed, holding up one paper. "Water's phone records. Pretty clumsy, but he got a call from one particular phone - it's owned by Jim Dawson." Jack smiled slightly. "Nice detective work, Jamie."  
  
But now Ross was slightly incredulous of her own idea. "You think Dawson had Schleissmann killed and his paperwork taken because of a scandal print? Unlikely at best."  
  
"But Waters doesn't know that. We don't know what's on those incriminating papers' that are missing. Perhaps Waters knows, especially if he took the papers on orders." Jack was on a roll. "If he killed on orders, than maybe he didn't want to sink alone. If he didn't, then I'll bet he still has those papers. I think we should plead him out - for the papers and his testimony."  
  
"On one flimsy "Account by a German friend?" Ross frowned.  
  
"Waters doesn't know we think this. Let's play hardball." Jack stood up. "Ready for a trip to Rikers?"  
  
Riker's Correctional Facility, Interrogation Cell, 12:45 p.m.  
  
Ms. Taskui looked uncomfortably at the two seated prosecutors. "What do you want?"  
  
"To speak with your client "Bout a plea bargain," Ross stated simply.  
  
"Really? What kind of plea?"  
  
"Murder two, 20 to life," Jack answered.  
  
"That's ridiculous!"  
  
"It's a gift with all the evidence stacked against your client. Two witnesses, one that I.D.'s you speaking "Bout seeing the victim asleep - I doubt that was a sleeping hour poll - and another that puts him at the scene of the crime. One .22, charcoaled on the outside, was in the dumpster behind his office, and forensics matched the bullets at the hotel to the gun. Also, some bloody clothes with the victim's blood were in the dumpster. The fact they fit your client is probably not a coincidence." McCoy was painfully straightforward.  
  
Ms. Taskui shifted "Bout a little. Then Waters, who had been looking out the window, spun around. "Hey, McCoy, you wanna loosen that a little more in exchange for a bit of help?"  
  
Jack looked at him. "What kind of help?"  
  
"I didn't kill that guy for the heck of it, and I can get you the man who wanted it done. I can also solve "Bout five murders for you right now. But first, I want Man two, minimum sentence, and witness protection." Waters looked pleased. Ms. Taskui looked lost.  
  
McCoy eyebrows shot up. "Let's hear the story first."  
  
"I get a call from a certain Mr. Dawson - you know, the Gov's aide. He came through my hotline - um, the line I get jobs' - killing jobs - from. He wanted this Schleissmann guy dead in three days and some, uh, interesting' papers destroyed, and then he told me where to find him - it should be clean and fast, he said." He paused. "So I call the hotel and go through to the room "Cross the hall from Mr. Schleissmann's. For two grand I wanted him to tell me when the guy was asleep - it's easier when they're asleep. Then I waited two days before he gave me a call back. I left my silencer at home - man that was stupid - and cuz I was out of days to wait, just went ahead and shot the guy. I took his papers, but I didn't destroy them - kept 'em in case the whole thing went down. They're in a deposit box at the bank. I woulda spoke up sooner, but this piss-ass lawyer wouldn't let me call you." He glared at Ms. Taskui. "I've done this stuff a few times - it was my sixth murder."  
  
"So you're a hit man." Ross was not pleased.  
  
"Basically, yeah."  
  
"What did you do' Mr. Schleissmann for?" asked McCoy.  
  
"Um, safety." Waters frowned. "This is why I want witness protection. Those papers I stole: those'll tell you that Dawson is connected with the mob. It's true, too. He had me nailed for a few things I did with em, and if I didn't kill Schleissmann, I was goin' to jail for a few other, uh, crimes. But now I'm not going down alone." Waters smirked. "So, why not fess up, for a new I.D. and a few years in jail? Besides, he also offered me ten grand for the job."  
  
Ross was visibly bothered by that. "Forget -"  
  
"Man one, 15-year sentencing recommendation, and witness protection. You testify and give us those papers, plus the other guys you did," McCoy spoke up. Ross spun and stared at her partner.  
  
Waters nodded. "Deal, then."  
  
Jack stood up. "Let's go."  
  
On the way out of the jail, Jamie suddenly protested, "What was that all "Bout?"  
  
"What was what all "Bout?"  
  
"Don't you play idiot with me, Jack! You just pleaded out the murderer of six people!" Jamie was horrified.  
  
"To solve five other crimes and nail a corrupt politician," McCoy answered calmly. Then he grinned at his partner. "Besides, with any luck, some of those crimes were committed "Cross the county lines. I can't say what the lawyers over there will do with the new information. They may prosecute instead."  
  
Jamie shook her head. "Gees, Jack. Please, explain before you do that, or I might kill you for plea bargains like that." Jack laughed.  
  
  
  
Office of Jim Dawson, Aide of the Governor, 5:20 p.m.  
  
Curtis and Briscoe brushed right by the secretary and into Dawson's office. "Hey," she protested, but the two detectives ignored her.  
  
Dawson was meeting with a lobbyist when Briscoe stepped in. "Detectives, I have told you everything I wish to say," Dawson snapped.  
  
"Yeah, well you'd better not say anything now," warned Briscoe, holding up an arrest warrant. Curtis grabbed Dawson's hands and pulled him out of his chair, snapping the cuffs on as Briscoe mirandized him. "You are under arrest for the murder of Harold Schleissmann. You have the right to remain silent, anything you do or say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. . ."  
  
The three men made their exit, leaving the lobbyist to gape in surprise.  
  
Courthouse, Arraignment, 10:37 a.m.  
  
"Docket number 63727, The People versus Jim Arnold Dawson, the charge is murder in the first degree," read the secretary of the court, handing the case to the judge.  
  
"Well, well, Mr. Dawson, having scandal troubles today?" asked the judge. "A plea, please?"  
  
Dawson glanced at his lawyer, Thomas Wilson, then said, "Not guilty."  
  
Jamie stood on the other side of the room. "Your honor, Mr. Dawson had a hit man come to Mr. Schleissmann and kill him in cold blood. The People ask for one million dollars in bail."  
  
"That's ridiculous!" shouted Wilson. "My client has his roots deep in the community! He's an aide of the governor, and he can't very well just run away from that."  
  
"If he only needs a phone to commit crimes, then why not put him in a place where phones are monitored?" Jamie pointed out.  
  
"If he didn't commit the crime, who cares?"  
  
"Please, Mr. Wilson, save it for the trial. Bail is 500 thousand, cash or bond. Next," sighed the judge.  
  
Jamie began to pack up, but as Dawson passed by her on the way to the holding cell, he hissed, "You and McCoy won't get away with this!" Then he was gone.  
  
Jamie stared after him, surprised, then exited the courtroom. As she left the building, she was mobbed by reporters. "Who is Mr. Schleissmann? Why is Dawson allegedly responsible for his murder? What is going through your head right now? What is Mr. McCoy thinking?" Shouted questions came from everywhere. It was all Ross could do to make it to her car and drive to the office.  
  
Staten Island, 34th Precinct, two days later, 11:17 a.m.  
  
Mike Logan was having a bad day.  
  
It wasn't the job: in fact, his job was looking up. Six months ago he had been reinstated into the rank of homicide detectives. After he had punched the politician at the courthouse he had been told he would never work a murder again, but here he was.  
  
No, it wasn't the job. It just wasn't a good day. It was raining, he was visibly tired, and the cases he was working had pretty much all come to dead ends. He was reading yesterday's paper - he'd forgotten to buy a copy of that day's paper - in hopes of finding good news.  
  
On the cover was a picture of Jamie Ross being mobbed. The headlines read, "Jim Dawson Accused of Murder!" Logan read the article with raised eyebrows. It was sketchy, it said, but supposedly the victim had damaging information on Dawson, and so Dawson had him killed by a hit man. The hit man was unknown.  
  
Logan frowned, then turned back to one unsolved case that had unfolded months ago. A woman, once a secretary, had been found hanging in her room by a bed sheet. On her computer an unlocking of previously sent e-mails had proven she had notified Dawson that she wanted to tell the world of an affair they had, giving Dawson motive to kill her. However, everything at the scene had suggested a suicide. Logan wrote a note to himself on a sticky pad: look into this case, then put it in another pile. Reading the article again, he noticed Lennie Briscoe was one of the detectives on the Dawson case. "Well, well," murmured Logan. "Let's see if I can help you out at the 2-7 again." He grinned. 


	3. Part III

Part III  
  
One week later, District Attorney Adam Schiff's office, 5:10 p.m.  
  
"I hope you're happy, Jack," snapped Adam. As the tired, gruff, and raspy- voiced head of the prosecutorial power in the county, he was not pleased with McCoy. "I've got the press and governor on my back like a bunch of vultures."  
  
Jack shook his head. "It won't matter a whit when Dawson is convicted."  
  
"You mean if he is convicted. You have a hitman as your star witness, some phone record corroborations, and a few sheets of scribbled notes as motive," Schiff growled. "Good luck."  
  
"It should come through," McCoy protested. "And I found out that Detective Logan - remember him? - has some similar cases running up on Staten Island. We might be able to establish a pattern."  
  
Adam was still annoyed. "Logan, huh? With our luck the press'll remember him too, and then the cases he works out will become just more trouble."  
  
"He'll come through in court."  
  
"But my office isn't voted for in court, Jack! If the constituents don't like how this case comes out, there goes my - and your - job!" Adam tossed his glasses on his desk, sat down, and rubbed his temples with one hand.  
  
McCoy was about to protest when someone came in with piece of paper. "Mr. McCoy? It's for you," he said, handing over the blue-backed set of papers. He made his exit as Jack flipped through them.  
  
"Well?" asked Schiff.  
  
"Wilson is after our motive," Jack said in a matter-of-fact voice.  
  
"There goes your case."  
  
"We can beat this!"  
  
"Good luck." Adam shook his head.  
  
Judge Andrew's Chambers, 12:45 p.m.  
  
"What is this about, gentlemen?" Judge Andrews was a short, fat man with only a few gray hairs on his head. The rest had no hair at all. As McCoy, Ross, and Wilson moved into the room, Andrews sat down comfortably behind his desk.  
  
Wilson opened the case. "My client has been wrongfully accused of murder. Mr. McCoy here says he has motive in the form of a few notes found in Water's deposit box at the bank. The State says they are made by the victim, but I disagree. I have made a motion to suppress the notes."  
  
McCoy immediately dug in. "We have done a handwriting test on the notes, your honor, and found an 85% match in handwriting. In People v. Clarence, that was more than enough of a match to proceed on."  
  
"Perhaps Mr. Waters, the hit man, is a forger, too," suggested Wilson. "Then the 85% match would be quite normal."  
  
"If that were so than the handwriting would be a near perfect match, as proven by numerous tests," replied McCoy. Ross dug into her briefcase and handed the judge a paper with examples of the tests on it. "In a normal person's day, their handwriting varies anywhere from 10 to 20% from paper to paper, as proven by this test." Another sheet was handed over.  
  
The judge frowned. "How reliable are these tests?" he inquired.  
  
Wilson jumped at the opening. "Not wonderfully so, your honor. Many people's handwriting remains practically the same all the time. Some people expect that -"  
  
"Where's the proof of this statistic?" demanded McCoy of Wilson. Andrews stopped him with an upheld hand.  
  
"As I was saying, some people expect that of others. Besides, sometimes an 85% match isn't enough, like in People v. Thompson and People v. Herkins."  
  
"Those cases are both over 50 years old!" snapped Jack. He shook his head slightly and said, "I can give you People v. Rickson, People v. Numatli, People v. -"  
  
"Enough. You could spout all the cases you want over it, McCoy, but call me a throwback. 85% is not enough for me. The notes are out."  
  
Jack's eyebrows shot up.  
  
"I'll see you in court later. So long." Judge Andrews put his robe back on as the three lawyers left the room.  
  
Ross stared after Wilson as he made off without a word to the two prosecutors. Then she turned to McCoy. "Did I miss something in there? Wilson hardly made a case!"  
  
Jack was glaring at the shut door to the judge's chambers. "No. But something weird just happened." He frowned. "And it made our job a lot harder. We needed those notes."  
  
"But they're gone," Jamie pointed out.  
  
"So we work around it." Jack lifted his eyebrows.  
  
Court Trial, Part 23, 11:43 a.m.  
  
John Waters shifted in his seat again. He was witnessing against Dawson, who was comfortably sitting in the defendant's seat. McCoy was standing next to the jury box, and Waters was doing his best to remain facing him. "So I went into his room and shot Mr. Schleissmann."  
  
"How many times did you shoot him?"  
  
"Um, four times: once in the head, once in the neck, and twice in the chest," replied Waters.  
  
"Pretty gruesome. Now, did you do anything else while you were in the room?"  
  
Wilson looked at McCoy with a what-are-you-trying-to-pull expression, but Jack was watching Waters.  
  
"I searched through his papers and came across some notes. They were, um, damaging to Mr. Dawson."  
  
Wilson shot to his feet. "Objection!"  
  
The judge glared at McCoy. Jack immediately explained, "He is testifying he found damaging papers. What is written on them has not been mentioned."  
  
Andrews sat back with a scowl. "I don't think so, Mr. McCoy. Find another question to ask. The jury will disregard the witness's last statement." Wilson sat down smugly.  
  
Jack bit his lower lip and looked at the ground. "Was there any reason for you to kill Mr. Schleissmann?"  
  
"Yeah. Dawson asked me to."  
  
"Why did he? Did he say?"  
  
"He said the guy had damaging information about him."  
  
"Did you find evidence of that in Mr. Schleissmann's room?"  
  
Wilson snapped up again. "Objection!"  
  
Judge Andrews glared at Jack. "Mr. McCoy, lay off, or I will place you in contempt!"  
  
McCoy frowned again and paced. Then he lifted his head. "Mr. Waters, will you tell me if you looked through Mr. Schleissmann's papers before killing him?"  
  
"Yes, I did."  
  
"Is there any reason why?"  
  
"Dawson said there would be damaging info there, and -"  
  
Wilson got up so fast his chair hit the banister behind him. "OBJECTION!"  
  
Andrews half stood. "That's it, McCoy, three strikes, and you're out! I am placing you in contempt of this court. Bailiff, take him to the holding cell!"  
  
Jack cringed, then requested, "Your honor, I petition that the court recess until bail is posted."  
  
The judge scowled. "Fine. Court is recessing until tomorrow. You, Mr. McCoy, are staying in the jail for the night!"  
  
The bailiff made his way toward McCoy and yanked his hands behind his back, snapping the handcuffs on Jack's hands in a way that added insult to injury. But as he was about to move Jack to the holding cell, McCoy planted his feet and turned on the judge. "For the record, your honor, I believe you have something other than justice on your mind, and I intend to find out just what that is." He gave the judge a purposeful look, and Andrews glared back.  
  
"I don't care what you plan to do much, Mr. McCoy. You pushed it too far. Take him out of here!"  
  
The bailiff grabbed Jack's cuffs and pressed a hand into McCoy's back, forcing him to walk to the holding cell through a sea of reporters, leaving Jamie to stare after him, her mouth gaping.  
  
Holding Cell, 3:55 p.m.  
  
Jamie made her way down the hall of noisy cellmates, following a bailiff to McCoy's cell. She found Jack leaning against the wall in a corner of the cell alone, his jacket slung over his arm and his tie undone. It was hot, stuffy, and sticky there, suddenly making Ross infinitely glad she had never a judge quite as mad as Jack had. She stopped in front of him, an angry look on her face.  
  
"My, my, Jack. I think this is the second time you've ended up down here with me as your second chair."  
  
Jack pushed himself off the wall and walked to the bars, sticking his arms through them and locking his hands together. "I didn't expect you to come down here, Ms. Ross," he smiled. "I assume you've called Adam?" Jamie nodded. "How did he take it?"  
  
"He's on his way down here to chew you out, just like I would if I could think of something to say around the mist of red I'm seeing. My goodness, Jack! You tried three times in a row without a pause!" Jamie shook her head, wishing she could smack the small grin off Jack's face. "What are you grinning at?"  
  
McCoy's eyes twinkled. "I think I have a little solution to our obnoxiously ignorant judge. He was just a little fast to bat me out of there, wouldn't you say?"  
  
"I think it's your own fault, you arrogant bastard," she hissed. "I'll bet you had to touch the stove five times as a kid before it got through your thick head that it hurts!" But a tiny smile pulled at the corners of her mouth after she said it. "Although, I guess, Judge Andrews has been a bit quick to the draw a few times."  
  
Jack nodded. "So, I say we investigate him a little. A 'small' boost in my monthly income might persuade me to throw a trial if I needed the money."  
  
Ross stared at him. "You think someone's paying him to throw the case?"  
  
McCoy shrugged. "Money's being thrown around at everyone, including Marks, Waters, and maybe Andrews. Might as well check into it."  
  
"Jack McCoy!" an angry, gruff voice snapped down the hall. Both Jack and Jamie turned to see Adam marching down the hall towards the cell.  
  
Jamie backed away. "Good luck with Adam, Jack. Sleep tight. I understand this place can be drafty." she grinned evilly and moved off down the hall as McCoy tightened a bit under Schiff's eyes.  
  
"Hello, Adam."  
  
"Oops, Jack." Adam's eyes flared. They didn't do that often. "You screwed up."  
  
"I was -"  
  
"Oh, no, you were not making a point! Now the reporters are flying about with a new story, and it doesn't read well for my office, or your job!" Adam growled. "Do you know what the news bulletins are saying already? 'Executive ADA Jack McCoy Arrested for Contempt!' It's headline news, Jack. I've got TV stations with pictures of you in cuffs coming out of my ears, and for what? It didn't help you, and it's really hurting me."  
  
McCoy explained quickly. "Adam, I think the judge is being bought off. He was awfully quick to have me placed in contempt and to throw out the notes."  
  
"And how much of this can you prove?!"  
  
"None, now, but -"  
  
"Exactly. As soon as Andrews posts bail, I'll have you out. And it's coming out of your paycheck, Jack. Good night." Adam crunched his floppy hat down further on his head and made his way out the door, leaving Jack to wonder if he really had pushed it too far. He dropped his head against the jail bars with a dull thud. What have I done?  
  
Two days later, Executive ADA Jack McCoy's Office, 4:34 p.m.  
  
"So, how was the night?" Jamie grinned. It was Monday morning.  
  
Jack scowled. "Shut up." Jamie laughed and turned back to her work: the bank statements of Judge Andrews.  
  
"Nothing here. Out of curiosity, Jack, where is your regular ADA now? Didn't you have her out for only a week?"  
  
McCoy didn't even look up from the statements he was reading. "She's working for your Executive ADA for now."  
  
Ross almost laughed. For the stunts Jack pulled sometimes, he sure did pull a lot of weight with Adam, seeing as he almost certainly had to check it with him first. Then suddenly she sat up. "Jack, Andrews got five grand placed in his deposit the day our trial started."  
  
McCoy shifted in his seat and leaned over his desk. "Really? Where from?"  
  
"Um, account number 62579." Ross looked up.  
  
Jack jotted the number down and grabbed his phone. "I'm gonna call the bank and find out just who filed that account." He sat and dialed, then waited. "Hello? Yes, I'm from the District Attorney's office, and I want the name of the owner of account 62579. Uh huh. . ." McCoy wrote down something on his note pad. "Okay. How much is in the account right now? Nothing!? Really. . .send us the account information, please, and tell me what account the money is from. Oh? Expect a call from our office." Jack put down the phone. "The account is owned by Mr. Ned Canasta, home phone number 555-0673."  
  
Ross frowned. A555? No such number!"  
  
Jack grinned. "Precisely. And there's nothing in the account right now, although the woman said it had five grand in it only two and a half weeks ago. . ."  
  
"Right before our trial started!"  
  
"But the money isn't from their bank, but instead a deposit of cash from an unknown person."  
  
"Time to find where Mr. Canasta's money is from."  
  
"Try Dawson's account."  
  
"Got it."  
  
* * *  
  
McCoy glared at Dawson's account records the next morning. "Nothing!"  
  
Jamie shook her head. "It's completely clean, and I was dumbfounded. You'd think that he'd be the one to throw the case. However, something occurred to me last night. Adam is always complaining now about the governor going berserk about this trial, right?"  
  
"Yes. . ."  
  
"What if the governor is the one paying off Andrews?"  
  
Jack looked up at Ross from his desk. "You think he'd go that far?"  
  
Jamie shrugged. "Don't know, but it can't hurt to try it."  
  
McCoy shook his head. "What a screwed up group of people run our state. We'll go get the records, Jamie. Now, if possible."  
  
A'We?' Jack, I can handle it."  
  
"Haven't you had enough of the press crowd? You don't have to deal with them alone, Jamie, especially because you wouldn't be stuck with this mess if it weren't for me."  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Oh no?"  
  
"I could have said no, Jack, when you asked me to help you out." Jamie grinned at him. "But thanks. I'd like the company."  
  
"I'll go get my coat."  
  
Albany, New York State, Governor's Office, 5:38 p.m.  
  
Curtis shook his head at the assignment they'd received. "Would you believe this, Lennie, if it weren't on paper in front of you?"  
  
Briscoe raised his eyebrows. "No. But this isn't the first unbelievable assignment ever." The two detectives walked into the governor's office without a word to the startled secretary. "Hello, Governor."  
  
The governor shot out of his seat. "Just who are you? What are you doing?" he snapped as Rey came around the desk.  
  
Briscoe held out his badge. "We are the NYPD, and we have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent. . ." Curtis and Briscoe led the shocked and handcuffed governor out of the building.  
  
Outside Jack McCoy was standing next to Jamie Ross, talking to the excited group of press members. "We have found evidence suggesting that the governor has bribed Judge Andrews, who is presiding over the case against Mr. Dawson, to destroy the case of the State. This is not justice, and we will see to it that all guilty parties involved are properly punished."  
  
"What led you to believe this?" someone cried out.  
  
"We are not ready to divulge that information."  
  
When Briscoe and Curtis led the governor outside, the whole crowd of the media moved in their direction, shouting questions all the way. Ross shook her head as the governor was pressed into a police car. "More fun, Jack."  
  
"Yeah, more fun."  
  
27th Precinct, Desk of Detective Lennie Briscoe, 9:58 a.m.  
  
The phone rang. Lennie, yawning, leaned over his desk to grab it. "Yeah?"  
  
"Lennie, have I got some news for you."  
  
"Mike!?"  
  
"Yeah. Got a pen? You're gonna make McCoy burst when he hears this one!"  
  
* * *  
  
After about 30 minutes of listening and 5 pages of notes, names, and numbers, Briscoe finally was able to say goodbye and hang up. Curtis looked up from some paperwork he had used as filler time. "You about done?" he asked.  
  
"Sure, but listen to this: on Staten, Mike Logan got some rich stuff on Dawson. He says there's another unsolved murder over there that he can link to everyone's favorite aide." Lennie grinned at his younger partner. "You ready for a heavy duty lecture?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Another 20 minutes were wasted at Briscoe's desk.  
  
Court Trial Part 28, 3:10 p.m.  
  
The trial was definitely going better. When Andrews had resigned with accusations of accepting bribes at his back, a mistrial had been declared and a new judge had taken over the case. McCoy had been more than pleased, and from the twinkle in his eyes it was easy to see he was happy. However, the news Briscoe had popped on him over lunch three weeks ago had pushed him over the top. He was finally ready to act on it. He popped out of his seat as the court rejoined after a late lunch. "Your honor, the People would like to add one more count of murder in the first degree to the indictment."  
  
Wilson stared at him, as did most of the court. The judge inquired, "Why, Mr. McCoy? Has this passed the grand jury?"  
  
"Yes, your honor, with flying colors," replied Jack, stepping around the People's table and handing the judge a paper explaining the new indictment. Then he dropped another copy on the defendant's desk with a grin of pride directed at Wilson. "Seeing as the prosecution has not yet finished giving its case to the jury for consideration, it is not entirely unreasonable."  
  
"But startling, McCoy. The requirement is a 30-day prior notification, and you may not present this part of the case until then."  
  
"Please, your honor, the court has made exceptions in particularly gruesome cases such as this: People v. Wielder, People v. Cammoson, and People v. Gordon are examples." Jack handed the judge the cases.  
  
Looking through them, the judge announced, "Doesn't sound too bad, Mr. McCoy. Mr. Wilson, any objections?"  
  
Wilson shuffled around his desk. "We, uh, are not prepared for this," he replied hesitantly. Dawson glared at him.  
  
"Well, then, you have some homework, don't you?" smiled the judge. "I'm admitting the new charge. Mr. McCoy, you may proceed."  
  
"Then I would like to call Detective Michael Logan to the stand."  
  
In the back of the room a Caucasian man with dark hair stood up, a distasteful plaid tie marking his sharp-looking but inexpensive suit. He made his way to the stand, was sworn in, and sat down.  
  
"Mr. Logan, please state your name and occupation for the record."  
  
"My name is Michael Logan, and I am a police detective in the 33rd precinct on Staten Island."  
  
"Do you have information regarding the new indictment against Mr. Dawson?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Please tell the court."  
  
It was a long winded story. Mike recounted finding a young woman hanging from a bed sheet in the middle of her room. She had sent an e-mail to Dawson two days before the determined day of her death involving an affair they had, and had notified him that she planned to tell the world. After several dead ends, it had been discovered that she had been killed by a Mr. Arnold Smith, who admitted to the murder in face of tough punishment. He had a disk that had an e-mail the victim had never sent on it: it was to be sent to the victim's friend, and it described her affair with Dawson. Smith had explained that Mr. Dawson had asked him to do it for 5 grand. It was five o'clock when Logan finally wrapped up.  
  
"Thank you, Detective." McCoy sat down.  
  
Wilson jerked to his feet. "Um, may the court recess?"  
  
The judge sat back. "Very well. I could use the break. Court will rejoin at nine tomorrow morning." He banged the gavel and walked out.  
  
Everyone stood and stretched. Jack shook his head at Logan as he made his way off the witness stand. "My, my, Logan, you did quite a bit of work behind my back."  
  
Mike turned to face him. "That's my job." He paused, then did something he never expected to do to Jack McCoy. "Care to grab a drink with me?"  
  
The answer surprised him: "I don't drink anymore, Mr. Logan. See you tomorrow in court, and thank you for coming on such short notice."  
  
"Whatever, McCoy. It's good to see Manhattan again, anyway. So long." Mike made his way toward the door.  
  
Wilson came up behind Jack. "McCoy," he said.  
  
Jack spun around. "What's up?"  
  
"Your office, ten minutes." Wilson shot off towards the courtroom door.  
  
Ross glanced at her partner. "What was that?"  
  
McCoy was straightforward. "A plea bargain meeting. But I don't think so. Dawson is going down with the ship."  
  
EXECTUTIVE ADA Jack McCoy's office, 5:12 p.m.  
  
"What on earth am I doing here?" snapped Dawson. "You, McCoy, are going way overboard!"  
  
Jack eased himself into his own chair. "It's you who went way overboard, Mr. Dawson. You killed two people. You yourself said you weren't that stupid. But I guess you are."  
  
"Why you -"  
  
"Shut up!" hissed Wilson. "Mr. McCoy, let's talk pleas."  
  
"Forget it. I want Dawson in jail for the rest of his life, if not in an electric chair." Jack was incredulous of the idea of letting Dawson get a plea.  
  
"Be reasonable!"  
  
"Your client killed two people because they were going to say something he didn't like," Jack pointed out, Aand you're telling me to be reasonable?! No bargains here. I have a strong case, and I smell a conviction." McCoy leaned back, looking at Wilson. Ross barely smiled at Jack's take-no-crap attitude toward the whole thing.  
  
"Fine. Murder two, he gets maximum sentence."  
  
"Hey!" shouted Dawson. "You're dealing away my future here!"  
  
McCoy planted his eyes on Dawson. "You got yourself into this mess, Mr. Dawson."  
  
"And you, Tom, are doing nothing to get me out! Your fired," Dawson shouted at Wilson. Then he stood up and turned towards Jack, leaning over Jack's desk and shaking a finger in his face. "I'm getting a better lawyer. Then I'm coming after you, McCoy. You and all your friends who helped cook up these false accusations! You're gonna regret the day you ever crossed swords with me!" Dawson spun around and stormed out, Wilson following him with an apologetic shrug to McCoy. The door shut.  
  
Jack took a deep breath. "That was interesting."  
  
Jamie watched him. "You'd never guess he's like that when you watch T.V."  
  
"Yeah. You wanna head home? I think it'll be smooth sailing for a while. We've got a nice case."  
  
"Sure. See you tomorrow."  
  
Courthouse Building, 4:30 p.m.  
  
Jamie and Jack made their way down the courthouse steps. It had been a long day, with numerous witnesses introducing various parts of the evidence of Logan's case against Dawson. Dawson had indeed gotten a new lawyer, Sean Jackson, and some of the questions he had asked had really been good, nearly tripping up the witnesses, and helping make the defendant's case to the jury. As usual a crowd of the press had attacked them just outside the courtroom, but their interest in what Dawson had to say was always greater than the curiosity about the two prosecutors, so they left McCoy and Ross once Dawson passed through the doors. It was a quiet afternoon for a building in the middle of New York City, so both McCoy and Ross were startled when suddenly shots rang out from down the road. Jack and Jamie's heads snapped up, and Jack was the first to see the black van making its way down the road towards them, an automatic popping out of its passenger window. Someone screamed, jolting Jack out of a freeze. Jamie was standing, unmoving, next to him, staring at the van. "Oh my goodness," she breathed.  
  
Then Jack's hand pressed into the small of her back as he forced her to the ground, shouting, "Get down!" He dropped on top of her, his eyes squeezed shut, gasping out prayers he hadn't said since he was a little Catholic boy. Jamie could feel his hand holding her head down against the ground and his body against hers, and somehow it was a comfort despite the screams and shots she heard over her own pounding heart. Jack felt something that seemed to explode into his arm, and at the same time he heard the van screeching around the corner. The shots ceased. He relaxed and slid off of Jamie, slowly sitting up. Next to him Ross sat up herself, her complexion white from fear. Jack looked just as bad.  
  
"Oh no, Jack, your arm!" Jamie shivered, and Jack glanced down at his arm - it was bleeding heavily.  
  
"That's what stung me. . ." he groaned. "Ow."  
  
"You need medical attention!" Jamie yanked a cellular phone out of her purse and dialed 911. "Hello? Answer me, dammit! Hello? Yes, there's been a drive-by shooting in front of the courthouse. There's a gunshot victim! Hurry! Ten minutes? Whadda you mean, ten minutes to get here?! We need you now!" Ross gasped. "Okay, but as fast as you can!" She hung up to see Jack slowly folding up, and she eased him to the ground. "Gees, Jack, live through this, please!" 


	4. Part IV

Part IV  
  
St. Timothy's Hospital, 9:23 p.m.  
  
"How is he?" Adam asked gruffly, his face almost impassive.  
  
"McCoy'll be all right, but the bullet near destroyed his arm," the doctor, a short, thin man with a goatee, answered. He held up some X-rays. "See, the bullet entered here, then slammed right into his bone. This used to be two bones. Now it's seven.  
  
"However, we patched him up pretty well. He's got a few screws in his arm to hold it back together, but it's gonna heal nicely, from what I can tell. McCoy was in good physical shape, and his body will do what we doctors can't. Can't say that he'll be as good as new, though. He's almost guaranteed to have a handicap - how bad, I don't know, but I doubt he'll lose too much of his arm's abilities. Good thing the tip of that bullet malfunctioned, or -"  
  
"Huh? Malfunctioned?" inquired Briscoe. He was the only detective present that night. Curtis had not shown up for work that day, but had stayed home to care for his disabled wife.  
  
"Yeah. It was a hollow point bullet. Usually they explode on impact. Didn't I tell you that?"  
  
"No. . ." Briscoe turned to Ross, who had dark circles under her eyes from worry. "I don't think McCoy getting shot in that drive-by was an accident," he remarked. "Exploding tips weren't in the other victim." The other victim was dead. A plain automatic shot had gone right through her heart.  
  
Ross shook her head. "I - I think someone was aiming for us, and it wouldn't surprise me if it had to do with Dawson." She told them about his threat to McCoy in the office.  
  
Adam frowned and rubbed his eyes. "You'd think that a guy like that would learn. Thank you, doctor."  
  
"Oh, one more thing," the doctor added. "You said McCoy was laying on top of you, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"The way the bullet entered his arm makes me think the shot passed through a tightened muscle, like his arm was raised. This means it was probably over his head - and yours, too. If his arm bone hadn't caught the bullet. . .let's just say you have McCoy in there to thank for your life." The doctor turned away, leaving Ross there with the two other men, startled beyond belief.  
  
* * *  
  
Briscoe sat back two hours later at the hospital. Ross had fallen asleep on his arm. He was about to fall asleep himself when his cellular phone - Curtis had insisted he buy one - rang, jerking him to wakefulness. Lennie reached the phone with as little movement as possible, then answered it. "Hello?"  
  
"Lennie, my place has been smashed up, destroyed!" Rey's voice was not panicked, but rather horrified on the other end. "We went out shopping for the day, and when we got back it was ruined. Somebody blew it bad. There was a message on the machine to 'warn McCoy and his friends to stay away from Dawson.' What does that mean?"  
  
Briscoe was startled by the news, but he coherently informed Curtis about the 'drive-by shooting' that had apparently aimed to kill McCoy and his assistant. "Put two and two together and I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Rey."  
  
"Man, to think this began as one homicide in a hotel!"  
  
"Get your family over here to the hospital, Rey. No one's gonna blow us up here, I'm sure."  
  
"I hope you're right."  
  
* * *  
  
The next morning Jamie woke up on the uncomfortable hospital couch to find she had been sleeping on Briscoe's arm. He was fast asleep, too. The whole Curtis family was on her left, the mother and children sleeping on cots and Rey was sitting on another couch, rubbing his eyes, apparently trying to wake up. Schiff was just entering the lobby.  
  
"Did the whole team spend the night here?" he growled tiredly.  
  
"You could say that," murmured Ross.  
  
Rey nodded his agreement and told about the destruction of his home. Adam shook his head and Jamie sat in apparent shock. Then a doctor stepped out of the recovery room. "Folks, your friend Jack McCoy is awake now. Would you like to talk with him?"  
  
Ross leapt to her feet. "Yes!" In her hurry she accidentally woke up Briscoe. Curtis stood slowly and followed her in along with Schiff and Lennie.  
  
In the room Jack was in a white bed with white sheets. In fact, the whole room was white. McCoy was almost as white as the room, drained from blood loss and the sedatives that were keeping him in a state of only semi- wakefulness. His left arm was in cast that covered it completely.  
  
At the sight of his friends he grinned a tired grin. "Hello. Everyone okay?"  
  
"In the worst sense of the word, yes," sighed Jamie. She quickly told him about what had happened to the Curtis family. "My daughter spent the night at a friend's house, the Curtis family stayed here, and so did Briscoe and I," she informed him. "How are you?"  
  
Jack's eyes could tell everything about him when he let them, and now was one of those times. "I'll survive," he said, but the dark, overshadowed pupils of his eyes had a fierce spark in them that usually only appeared when he was questioning a stubborn witness or making a dramatic closing speech. An angry spark. Schiff's eyebrows raised when he saw it. He was the only one that noticed.  
  
"I'm glad, Jack." Ross was relieved.  
  
"Wait. Did you say Curtis' home was destroyed? Sorry, I'm a little slow. It's the sedatives."  
  
Rey spoke up. "It's demolished, with the message to warn you to stay away from Dawson." He winced. "I hate to think what examples the guys who did this woulda made of my family if we'd been home. . ."  
  
"Don't dwell on that, Detective. The notes of information from our victim put Dawson as one of the top members of the Mob. Of course this would make him mad that they are now permissible," Jack informed him. Rey's eyes read Asurprise" at the news. The detectives hadn't been updated on the case since the prosecutors had taken over it. Jack continued, "I'm sorry I didn't mention this before. The notes were to be introduced in a week if things had continued on schedule. I didn't think Dawson would go to such extremes to be sure they never entered the court." He looked down at the ground. "I want everyone involved to have some kind of protection in case he tries another stunt. Dawson pulls more weight in the underground than I expected."  
  
"We're in the big leagues now," Lennie said dryly. He glanced at Schiff and saw him looking rather intently at Jack. "Hey, let Jack get some sleep," he suggested. "I'm hungry. Want something, Jack?" McCoy shook his head. "Okay, your loss. C'mon guys, let's grab a donut down the street." Briscoe herded Curtis and Ross out, leaving Adam alone with Jack.  
  
"Jack, drop the case."  
  
McCoy shook his head again in an emphatic no. "We're in too deep now, Adam. We have to finish it."  
  
Adam looked into Jack's eyes again, but they were guarded now. "You want revenge."  
  
"They tried to kill Jamie and me. They ruined Curtis' house. Dawson is about to be convicted for murder and he's pissed, so he's gonna destroy the people running the case so the case falls apart!" Jack waved around his good arm. "We can't just let that go!"  
  
"Give the case to someone else, then," said Adam. "You've made it personal. That's dangerous."  
  
"No, Adam. I want this guy where he belongs: in jail for life, if not on Death Row. He's a menace to society, he just proved that yesterday. Ross and I know the case inside out. Let us finish it. We've got the best shot."  
  
Adam sighed. "Jack, if you let it become revenge, it'll destroy you. Be careful," he warned.  
  
Then Jack did something he didn't do often: he submitted. "I will, Adam." Then he laid back again and fell asleep in two minutes flat.  
  
* * *  
  
Three hours later Jack was awakened again to find Jamie Ross in the room with a bunch of flowers. "To add color to the room," she explained.  
  
Jack grinned. "Thanks a bunch. It is a boring room."  
  
Jamie put down the flowers and sat down by the bed. "Um, Jack, I also wanted to say thank you. The doc said that you saved my life by dropping on top of me during the shooting. The bullet that shattered your arm would have been in my head. I owe you my life. . ." Jamie stared at the floor.  
  
"I'm glad you're alive, Jack."  
  
"I'm glad you are too, Jamie."  
  
Trial Part 58, four weeks later, 1:17 p.m.  
  
The trial was running smoothly again. The court had stopped meeting for two weeks as Jack had recovered. It appeared that Dawson had not been pleased to hear McCoy or Ross was still alive. According to one of his secretaries he had actually sworn when he saw the news clip about the two ADAs, saying, "How did they. . ." but he hadn't finished the sentence, and no evidence could link him to the drive-by shooting or the Curtis home destruction. However, Jack was not discouraged. The cast that had held his arm since the accident would come off in one and a half weeks. He was semi-sitting on the prosecution table as he asked, "Mr. Waters, how many times did you shoot Mr. Schleissmann?"  
  
Waters shifted in his seat. "Four times: once in the face, once in the neck, and twice in the chest."  
  
"Did you do anything else while you were in the room?"  
  
"Yes. I searched Mr. Schleissmann's bags for anything that was damaging to Mr. Dawson."  
  
"Why did you do that?"  
  
"Mr. Dawson had asked me to." In the defendant's chair Dawson gritted his teeth.  
  
"Did you find anything?"  
  
"I found several pages of hand-scribbled notes in the bags."  
  
McCoy turned around and picked up a few papers off the table. He walked over and handed them to Waters. "Are these the notes?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"When you found them, what did you do with them?"  
  
"I saved them. Dawson said to destroy them, but this way I could connect Mr. Dawson to the crime if I went to trial."  
  
"Mr. Waters, why did Mr. Dawson want the notes destroyed?"  
  
Jackson stood quickly. "Objection! Calls for speculation."  
  
"Withdrawn. Please read the notes, starting at the beginning."  
  
"No, McCoy! Objection! Approach, your honor?"  
  
The judge motioned them up and Jackson dug in. "What point does this have? It is not directly relevant to the case."  
  
"It goes to motive, your honor."  
  
"For the case it should suffice to say that it was damaging, Mr. McCoy. Sustained," said the judge.  
  
Jack walked slowly back to the witness stand, then asked, "Did you do anything else?"  
  
"No. I walked out the door and went home."  
  
Jack looked at the jury and walked back to his seat. Jackson stood and buttoned his jacket. "Mr. Waters, please tell the court your occupation."  
  
"I own a perfume shop on 32nd. I spend my time there."  
  
"And on the weekends you do deadly favors?"  
  
Waters sat back. "For a price."  
  
"Really. And how many favors have you done?"  
  
"Six."  
  
"Sounds like you have quite some time coming in Rikers." There was no answer. "Maybe you don't, then? Isn't it true that you are testifying in return for a deal with the district attorney's office, giving you only 15 years in jail along with witness protection!?"  
  
"Yeah," Waters mumbled.  
  
"How nice of Mr. McCoy to offer you that," Jackson smirked. "That's a sweet deal. No further questions, your honor." Jackson sat back down.  
  
Trial Part 78, two and a half weeks later, 10:05 a.m.  
  
Jackson smiled at his client on the witness stand. "Mr. Dawson, what is your occupation?"  
  
"I am the top aide of the governor of the state of New York. I manage most of the work here in New York City."  
  
"Really? So you are an important member of the community."  
  
"Yes, I believe so."  
  
"Aren't you prominent?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And that makes you a target."  
  
"Certainly. Many people have accused me of wrongdoing. I have been attacked with accusations of money scandals, of sexual attacks, and now, murder." Dawson shook his head as though shocked. "What a horrible thing to do to another human being!"  
  
Jackson nodded. "Mr. Dawson, we have heard that you made a five-minute phone call to Mr. Waters. Mr. Waters is a self-proclaimed hitman who says he killed Mr. Schleissmann on your orders. Please tell the court what that call was about."  
  
"I looked up numbers to perfume shops in the yellow pages. I wanted to get my mother a gift. If that's a sin, I confess," he exclaimed.  
  
"Than Mr. Waters is lying about your conversation."  
  
"Why shouldn't he, for nearly no time in jail?"  
  
Jack jumped up. "Objection!"  
  
"Sustained. The jury will disregard the witness' last statement. Continue," said the judge.  
  
Dawson amended his answer. "Yes, he's lying."  
  
"Mr. Dawson, how would you describe yourself?"  
  
"I am a careful, kind man. I am prudent about the City's money supply from the state, and I do my best to be sure the most is done for the sovereign state of New York."  
  
"We have heard that you had an appointment with the deceased on the day of his murder. Why was this meeting arranged?"  
  
"Mr. Schleissmann said he wanted to talk to me about how I run the city - an exclusive he could send home to Germany, he explained. I agreed."  
  
"Did he ever tell you that he had damaging information about you?"  
  
"No! I was surprised when the police told me that."  
  
"We will now move on to the death of your former secretary. Did you ever have an affair with her?" Jackson changed gears smoothly.  
  
"Goodness, no! She was a wonderful secretary, though. I was horrified by the news of her death."  
  
"And did you ever speak with Mr. Arnold Smith?"  
  
"I had no idea who he was until the day he was mentioned in this court."  
  
"Did you ever receive e-mails about this false affair your secretary supposedly sent?"  
  
"Yes, actually. I told her it was foolish, that making up lies wouldn't help her career. She wanted money, she told me at work, to keep her quiet. That's when I said she must be dreaming our affair up. She was found dead the next day, a suicide, the police said. It was horrible."  
  
"So, you knew what she was saying about you?"  
  
"Yeah, but that's hardly a reason to kill someone! Some people are just disturbed and don't know what they're talking about. I'm afraid my secretary had a fantasy love life between us. I'm sorry she died.  
  
"As to the German reporter, Mr. Schleissmann, I'm sorry about what happened to him as well, but I can't explain why anyone would have that done. If Mr. Waters did indeed kill him for hire, I don't know who hired him. I am truly sorry about this." He looked at his hands. "That anyone would do this to another human. . ."  
  
"Thank you Mr. Dawson," said Jackson, sitting down.  
  
Jack McCoy stood slowly, taking his time while stretching his newly Auncasted" arm. The doctor had said he had lost 15% of its capabilities - not enough to be much of a problem. "Yes, it is horrible for someone to do anything like that to another human," he agreed. "It's terrible. So, how come you do it?"  
  
Jackson stood. "Objection."  
  
"Withdrawn," Jack replied hastily. "Now, Mr. Dawson, you testified that you were calling Mr. Waters about some perfume for your mother. That's awfully nice."  
  
"It's true."  
  
"Really? Why did Mr. Waters say you called about a 'hit for hire', then?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Okay. Arnold Smith says you got together with him once and you asked him to kill your secretary. He was not aware of our case involving Mr. Schleissmann, Mr. Dawson. Why would he pick you as the man who wanted her dead? Why not someone else, anyone she was close to?"  
  
"I'm not sure, Mr. McCoy." Dawson was slightly irritated.  
  
"If you are so clean, Mr. Dawson, then why would Mr. Schleissmann say he has evidence you are a member of the Mob?"  
  
"Objection!" Jackson shot out of his chair. "Approach, your honor?"  
  
The judge nodded, and the two attorneys came forward. "Mr. McCoy is mentioning things found in the notes, your honor!"  
  
"Credibility," Jack protested. "I'm not using it as motive. I'm contesting the odds he says are against him."  
  
"But the jury will inevitably draw conclusions off of this!"  
  
"We can't just let him lie on the stand!"  
  
The judge gave Jack an annoyed look, but said, "Objection denied. You may proceed, Mr. McCoy."  
  
"Thank you, your honor." he turned back to Dawson. "So, why did Mr. Schleissmann say that you were in the Mob?"  
  
Dawson shrugged. "I have no idea, Mr. McCoy. He must have had bad information."  
  
"From someone like Waters? Or Smith?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Jack stood back for a moment, examining Dawson. Then he plunged back in again. "Mr. Dawson, when you found out that your secretary thought she had an affair with you, did that make you angry?"  
  
"No. It confused me."  
  
"If someone told me that, I'd be angry!" protested McCoy.  
  
"Well, it didn't bother me."  
  
"Come on! Today if a woman cries out 'affair!', everyone flocks to her and leaves the man to cope. Surely it bothered you that she was trying to make you look bad with this information."  
  
"I dealt with it."  
  
"With your anger? I thought you weren't angry!"  
  
Dawson flushed slightly at his tongue slip. "No, I dealt with her!"  
  
"I'm sure you did." The statement was cold. "When you found out about the information that Mr. Schleissmann had, weren't you angry?"  
  
"I heard about that after he died!"  
  
"Oh really? Your first statement to the police, sir!" Jack slammed down the paper in front of Dawson. "Please read it."  
  
A'Mr. Dawson said he didn't want Mr. Schleissmann to think he had anything to hide.'" Dawson read.  
  
"Did you have something to hide, Mr. Dawson?" Jack's eyebrows raised.  
  
"No!" Dawson gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. "I don't have anything to hide, Mr. McCoy." However, a small hint of anger was glowing behind his brown eyes. Jack saw it smoldering, and he leapt to fan the flame.  
  
"Mr. Dawson, you have said that Waters is lying, Smith is lying, your secretary was lying, and Schleissmann was lying! Is the whole world out to get you?" Jack gasped.  
  
"Maybe." Dawson tried to stay calm.  
  
"If it is, does that ever make you mad?!"  
  
"I never thought about it!"  
  
"Is this investigation making you mad?"  
  
Dawson nearly snapped back, but he restrained himself visibly and replied, "Yes. It is an injustice to me and the people I should be working for."  
  
"You're not working for the people, only for yourself! You kill anyone who gets any ideas about exposing the truth about you! Withdrawn," Jack spoke quickly. "Mr. Dawson, does my case against you make you angry? You, personally," he asked.  
  
Dawson seethed, but he had to answer. "Yes," he finally said.  
  
"Mad enough to try and have me and my friends killed?" Jack snapped.  
  
Jackson fairly flew from his chair. "Objection!"  
  
"I'm establishing pattern, your honor."  
  
"I'll allow it, but lightly, McCoy. Objection denied."  
  
"So?"  
  
"No! I don't know a thing about it, McCoy, and this is going too far!"  
  
"Oh and killing isn't? Then why is it I've had this arm in a cast for six weeks?!"  
  
"Someone shot you, McCoy, but I don't know who!" Dawson shouted.  
  
"Just like you don't know who sent Detective Curtis a threat, warning us to lay off, after destroying his home?"  
  
"Objection!"  
  
"Mr. McCoy. . ."  
  
Jack didn't take his eyes off Dawson. "Just like you don't know who sent Waters and Smith to kill people even though they both came up with you as their contractor? Just like you didn't know about the 'imagined' affair or the damaging papers?" Jack waved around his hands as he slowly moved towards Dawson. When he reached the stand he planted his hands on the wooden wall between him and Dawson, whose eyes smoldered with hate now. McCoy looked right into those eyes. "It seems you are quite ignorant of everything around you, but you are the center of everyone else's universe; everyone knows you, but you don't know anyone." Jack leaned closer. "Care to explain, sir?"  
  
There was a full ten seconds of silence as the two men stared each other down. Dawson dropped his eyes, and Jack immediately stood up again. "You don't have to answer that." He walked back to his seat.  
  
Trial Part 80, 4:08 p.m.  
  
Jackson was pacing in front of the jury, stopping every so often to look one of them in the eye, as he gave his closing statement.  
  
"It is a terrible thing when someone sinks to sending off other men to kill people for hire. Mr. Schleissmann was not armed. He wasn't even awake when he was shot. And that is horrible. However, Mr. Dawson had nothing to do with it.  
  
"Mr. McCoy would have you believe that my client is a cold-blooded murderer that doesn't care a bit about anything around him. That is simply not true. You have heard witness after witness tell you that he is a good man. Mr. Dawson is a fundamentally good person. People like him do not kill others in their spare time.  
  
"Mr. Dawson has been through similar situations: people have accused him of fraud, of embezzlement, of affairs, and now, of killing others. However, he has never been convicted. The reason for that is he didn't commit those crimes! He simply didn't do them, and the law functioned as it should, keeping the innocent out of prison.  
  
"In the world today it is so easy to finger those that are powerful and to say, 'They took my money, they had an affair with me, they wanted me dead.' With some of the recent conduct of the very President of our country, it is sometimes almost expected that 'they all do that.' When Mr. Waters was informed that he was under arrest for the murder of Mr. Schleissmann, he fingered my client as his ticket out, and got only a few years in prison for six murders. Six! They don't even fit on one hand. Waters figured he could use my client as a scapegoat. He did indeed know about the papers against my client. Mr. Dawson did not, but who was to say? Waters used them as his ticket to freedom. Apparently Mr. Smith went the same way. Both have killed before, and both merely pointed at Mr. Dawson and got away with it!  
  
"My client has been accused by the deceased to have done some very terrible things. Mr. Schleissmann had information suggesting Mr. Dawson is a member of the mob. Now, can you believe everything you hear? Of course not. As for the affair allegedly held between my client and his secretary, it has been revealed that he did not ever have a sexual relationship with her. His secretary may have been imagining it, or maybe she just wanted some money, but in any case she thought she had an affair with my client. Once again this is a lie. He never had one. When the pressure got to her, she killed herself: this is a true tragedy, but my client was not involved.  
  
"Mr. Dawson may have been accused of many things, but he never has killed anyone or had someone kill for him. He is just a decent man trying to make a living, who happens to have found success in the area of politics." Jackson sat back down.  
  
McCoy stood slowly. Ross noticed that he made a slight show of trying to fully stretch out his arm - it was something that he was not expected to do again, ever. He walked out from behind the table and looked at the jury.  
  
"Mr. Dawson is a powerful man. He's been one for several years now as the right-hand-man of the governor. Dawson has worked hard to get there, I'm sure - but his steps to the top have included murder.  
  
"You have seen this whole case. I won't insult your intelligence. There have been many good points for both sides. But what the defense is suggesting is not logical. According to Jackson, Mr. Dawson is telling the truth, and he didn't do anything. Give this some thought. That would mean that everyone else you have seen these past weeks have been lying.  
  
"Mr. Waters - he says Dawson told him to kill Schleissmann. So did Mr. Smith. Did they consult with each other? No. But they came up with the same basic story and with Dawson on their own. What about the notes from the deceased Mr. Schleissmann? Did he make up the information about Mr. Dawson being part of the Mob?" McCoy shook his head. "That would be a stupid thing to joke about.  
  
"If Mr. Dawson is telling the truth, then where is the evidence? We have phone records that prove Mr. Dawson called Mr. Waters three days before the murder. We know Mr. Waters took papers from Mr. Schleissmann's materials that were damaging to Mr. Dawson! Why would he do that? For fun? It's because Mr. Dawson asked him to.  
  
"How about Mr. Dawson's secretary? What a tragedy - it was considered a suicide. But you have seen that it was not a suicide, but a homicide, inspired by Mr. Dawson! And why? To protect his love life. He didn't want people to think he had an affair. Which he did, and to keep it quiet, he stooped to murder!  
  
"Mr. Dawson would have you believe that all these things are merely coincidences. He was ordering perfume when he called Mr. Waters - what incredible chance! It's just bad luck. Mr. Smith fingered him for fun! He just pulled a random name out of a hat, and it happened to be Dawson! How convenient he's on trial for another, similar murder. Don't let yourself be fooled by Mr. Dawson's conspiracy theory! It makes for a wonderful movie plot, but it does not make a case in this courtroom! The fact is, ladies and gentlemen, that it is Mr. Dawson who is running the only conspiracy in this room - and that conspiracy to murder those that try and stand up to him. That is what you must convict him for." Jack continued to stand in front of them for a minute, then he made his way back to his seat.  
  
Trial Part 81, 2:23 p.m.  
  
The jury filed back into the courtroom and the foreman handed the paper with the verdict on it to the bailiff. Jack and Jamie, Jackson and Dawson all watched the paper on its way to the judge, who glanced at the paper and handed it back to the bailiff, and they watched it all the way back.  
  
"Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?" the judge asked.  
  
"Yes, we have, your honor."  
  
"Would the defendant please stand." Mr. Dawson slowly rose to his feet along with his lawyer. "On the first count, murder in the first degree, how do you find?"  
  
The foreman began to read the paper he held. "We find the defendant, Jim Arnold Dawson, guilty." There was an instant feeling of relaxation in the courtroom. Dawson turned from the jury in shock. The second announcement was merely a formality.  
  
"On the second count, murder in the first degree, how do you find?"  
  
"We find the defendant guilty."  
  
Jack's shoulders dropped in an admitted relief. Jamie smiled and began to stand. Then there was a shout from the other end of the courtroom. "How can this have happened!? You, McCoy. . ." Dawson snapped.  
  
McCoy turned to Dawson, standing slowly. "Mr. Dawson?"  
  
"You did this to me! How dare you!"  
  
"No, Mr. Dawson. You did this to yourself. Let's go." Jack turned away from the steaming defendant. Dawson turned his eyes on Ross accusingly. Jamie returned the look, then walked out of the courtroom calmly, leaving Dawson to stew in his own anger.  
  
* * *  
  
On their way out of the courthouse, Ross suddenly piped up, "I'm your assistant again, Jack."  
  
Jack glanced at her. "I thought you would get back with your old Executive ADA after this case."  
  
Jamie smiled. "I checked with Adam, and I'm sticking with you. I forgot how much fun prosecuting important cases could be."  
  
"What about your daughter?"  
  
"Let's just say I'll be prosecuting important cases part-time."  
  
"That works."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm sure. Thanks for working the case with me. You make a wonderful second chair."  
  
"You're welcome." The two attorneys continued down the marble steps.  
  
District Attorney Adam Schiff's Office, 8:45 p.m.  
  
Jack poured some light whiskey into his cup and said, "Dawson will be going to jail for a long time unless he's executed. We've got the family of Mr. Schleissmann coming up all the way from Germany to testify at the sentencing hearing."  
  
Jamie nodded. "He's gonna be gone for a while. As for the governor, he's pleading out of the bribery charges, but his political career is over."  
  
McCoy shrugged. "Too bad we're not prosecuting the case."  
  
Schiff glanced at McCoy. "I kept you off that case on purpose. You would have prosecuted him from here to kingdom come."  
  
"And I would've done a good job too." Jack grinned over his scotch. Adam shook his head.  
  
Ross frowned. "Jack, one thing about that case: what about Waters and Smith? They're both getting off easy!"  
  
At that Jack looked down. "We lost those guys to get Dawson," he rationalized, but it wasn't very convincing.  
  
Adam shook his head again. "You lost two hit men for a corrupt politician; Dawson used them to save his butt." He rubbed his temples. "What a case." Slowly he rose to his feet. "Coming?"  
  
Jack and Jamie stood and followed their boss out the door.  
  
* * *  
  
Author's final notes: What did you think? Please, please review; reviews are always good.  
  
In case you are wondering why I inflicted this fic on you, it is because Apochrypha - the current master of all L&O fics - did not accept it. Looking back on it (it was written about 3 years ago), I am not surprised. However, I thought I'd throw this piece out for all to criticize and comment on as they please.  
  
Yes, McCoy is my favorite character.  
  
Yes, I dislike Abbie, or at least liked Jamie better.  
  
Yes, I'm crazy.  
  
No, I can't write a good conspiracy theory.  
  
Thanks for reading anyway.  
  
~~Vikki 


End file.
